One More Tomorrow
by waiting4morning
Summary: Sam knew that life could throw curve balls, but even she never expected to find new life in a land of death. Shorts, one shots, and drabbly things from Fallout 4. F!SSxDanse
1. Chapter 1

These stories will probably not be in chronological order. I'm writing just as inspiration hits.

Small spoilers for the search for Shaun and the beginning of Danse's background.

* * *

Danse felt useless. The basement of the Memory Den was cluttered with machinery parts—spare bits for the memory pods, he guessed—and two of the pods themselves. Sam lay in one now, her eyes open but unfocused, hands gripping the armrests. She didn't look anything like the relaxed patrons upstairs who had appeared to be enjoying a nap with pleasant dreams. Sam looked like she was being tortured from the inside. He wanted to pull her out of the machine, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate it. This was her only lead, her last hope to find her son.

He turned to glare at the synth—Nick Valentine—sitting slumped in a chair next to the pod. Danse's stomach curdled at the sight of the thing's scalp peeled back on the base of its metal skull where Dr. Amari had plugged in the bit of Kellogg's cybernetic brain implant. Nick was bent, looking at his knees, wincing occasionally as if in pain. Could synths feel pain? Maybe it was just a glitch as the two mechanical parts interfaced. Still, Danse had to admit he was impressed with him—it. He hadn't expected the synth to be so eager to help get information that would expose the Institute, but he had, seeming as determined as Sam.

Abomination the synth may be, but at least he was a helpful abomination. And maybe Danse wouldn't trust him as much as Sam seemed to, but he could at least thank him for the help when it was over.

Maybe.

Danse wondered for a moment if he would be as quick to plug in his own brain to help Sam, but dismissed the foolish thought. He was human and therefore couldn't plug himself in like the synth had. _But_... He glanced at his sponsor's face, tears now leaking down the sides of her open eyes as Dr. Amari's screen showed a scene which must have been her husband getting shot by Kellogg.

It felt wrong to watch somehow; an invasion of privacy to see her darkest moment. And yet, Dr. Amari and the synth were there too. Sam had been willing to expose this to all of them, had known that this scene was one she might have to relive. She had even asked Danse to come along, fully knowing that really she only needed Nick to be there. It was an act of trust that humbled him, made him warm on the inside.

Sam was twitching now in the pod, jaw clenched. Danse looked away. Would he be as brave? Could he relive the worst moments of his life? Cutler's death had been hard, but as much pain as that had caused him, even Danse had to admit that it wasn't the same as watching a spouse die and your child disappear in front of you.

"Alright," Dr. Amari murmured, still standing in front of screen. She tapped a few keys. "I think that's the end. Stand back please, Paladin."

Danse shuffled back as Amari opened the pod. Sam was still shaking, her cheeks wet.

"What's wrong?" he asked sharply. "Why isn't she waking up?"

The doctor cast him an exasperated look over her shoulder as she readied a stimpak. "Walking through another person's memory isn't a refreshing nap. She has gone through a minor trauma. Give her a few minutes, and she'll be fine." She leaned over and wiped the inside of Sam's elbow with antiseptic, plunging the needle of the stimpak in with practiced precision.

Sam relaxed almost immediately. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her breathing became more even. Dr. Amari pressed two fingers to the inside of Sam's wrist, nodded, and stood up, going to the back of Nick's head. The process for the synth was less involved. As soon as Amari disconnected him from the implant, Nick blinked, the yellow irises glowing brighter, and straightened in his chair.

"All set, doc?" he asked in his gravelly voice, but he was looking at Sam.

"She'll be fine, Mr. Valentine," Amari assured him. "Hold still while I close you back up... There. You're free to go. Don't be surprised if you experience a few mnemonic events, however. You were connected long enough that I wouldn't be surprised if there was some bleed through of the synapses. Your cognitive processors will need a full cycle to clean out the foreign junk data."

"I'll run a diagnostic tonight," Nick promised, putting his patched fedora back on his bald synthetic scalp. He glanced up at Danse, yellow eyes thoughtful, then nodded. "I'll wait upstairs."

As the synth's steps faded upstairs, Dr. Amari watched Sam a moment longer. "She's coming out of it," she said, as Sam's eyelids fluttered. "Perhaps you should get out of your armor."

Danse cast a quick look at the doctor. "What? Why?"

"She'll need you," she said simply. "My bedside manner only goes so far." Her mouth twitched up in a smile.

Danse was confused, but none of his instincts were screaming that this was some elaborate kind of trap, so he backed into a corner out of the way and pulled the manual release, climbing out of his armor as Sam was beginning to stir and groan. He hurried to the pod's side, feeling—as he usually did outside his armor—smaller, less certain of himself. But that vanished when Sam opened her eyes and looked at him. Her hazel green eyes were bloodshot. She looked… lost, not at all the strong, confident gaze he was used to seeing.

"Danse," she said.

"Hi," he said, feeling suddenly foolish. What did you say to a person who'd just hopped though a psychopath's memories that happened to include the murder of her husband and abduction of her child?

But Sam didn't seem to notice his idiocy and sat up, lurching against him so suddenly that he almost fell over. Her hands clutched at the front of his BOS uniform, and she buried her face against his shoulder. Danse stiffened, mouth going dry.

"S-Sam?"

But she only shook her head against him, and burrowed deeper, as if trying to climb outside herself. Danse knew the feeling. After Cutler had died—no, after he had _killed_ Cutler—he remembered the helplessness, the rage, and anger, the feeling that he was coming loose at the seams. It was partly why he loved wearing his power armor so much. Inside it, he was in control and solid; chaos made orderly. But Sam's power armor was sitting in the opposite corner of the basement, and he knew that wasn't what she needed right now.

Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her. She was cold, and he tried to will his warmth into her. He didn't say anything else—speech didn't seem wise when his heart was trying to evacuate his chest—but he pressed his cheek against the top of her head, holding her tight. Not too tight—he forgot, sometimes, how small she was—but tight enough that he could feel when her trembling stopped and her breathing evened out. Against his conscious will, his hand had moved up and began stroking her hair. It had come loose from its regulation knot at the base of her skull while she'd lain in the pod.

"Pull it together, soldier," he murmured into her hair. She huffed a watery laugh, and he felt warmth bloom through him. _Yes_ , he thought, as she began to pull away, swiping at her eyes. He didn't' know what would come, but he knew he would do everything in his power to help her.


	2. Acid Rain

Pre first "friendship" conversation with Danse. No major plot spoilers

* * *

Paladin Danse grunted with frustration from inside his helmet and removed it, his dark eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the cracked eyeglass. "It's no good," he said, his voice flat with annoyance. "Can't see a thing. We'll have to return to the Prydwen for a replacement."

"I might have a spare lens at my place," Sam offered. She'd already removed her helmet, preferring to have her face exposed to the sun and wind when they weren't being attacked. The sun was a bit dim, though, as if afternoon was waning, though it was only just the middle of the day according to her Pip-Boy.

"Are we close?"

She pointed to the line of trees in the distance. "About an hour's walk east."

He nodded. "I appreciate it, soldier."

"No problem. Thanks for assisting at Abernathy's. Glad you were there to help me get the engine running again. I was ten seconds away from taking a shotgun to the blasted thing."

Danse's brow furrowed again. "A shotgun would not have—Oh." His expression cleared, a small smile appearing through his beard. "Yes, then I am glad I was there as well."

"Even though the brahmin kicked you?"

He frowned again, though it looked more rueful than upset. "I should have been paying more attention. All I was thinking was that the part I needed had rolled into the animal pen. If I hadn't been so... tunnel-visioned, I would have realized she was upset about me being too close to her calf."

"Well, at least your helmet was on." Sam grimaced. "You'd have quite the shiner if you took that hoof full on."

"Agreed."

They walked for several more minutes in comfortable silence. Sam couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to do that with someone. Nate had been a chatterbox. He talked about anything and everything, and she could keep up with him sometimes, but mostly she loved to listen. His propensity to talk had proven a reliable indicator of his mood, even in the early days of their dating relationship. Frustrated Nate talked in short, clipped sentences that tended to be fast and hard, like a boxer's right hook. Silent Nate was the worst, though. It meant his PTSD was acting up and he needed all of his concentration just to function.

Sam wasn't afraid of Danse's silences. Danse was quiet like... she glanced around, her eyes falling upon a massive oak, whose trunk was so big around it might have been a sapling in her day. Danse was like that, big and solid, a silent and watchful sentinel. His silence meant he was paying attention.

She liked that he'd been willing to help her with her duties to the Minutemen and the painfully slow search for Shaun… but she had to wonder. Danse was devoted to the Brotherhood. How much longer would he be willing to put Brotherhood concerns aside? Would he order her back on mission? Would she have to leave the Brotherhood behind to continue her search on her terms? The thought made her more uneasy than it should. The Brotherhood resources were invaluable against whatever mysterious forces had conspired to steal her son… but if she were honest with herself, she would miss Danse if she were forced to part ways with him. She'd come to rely on him more than she would have thought possible.

Danse suddenly stiffened, his head going up as he sniffed the air. "How close are we?"

"Why? What's wrong?" Sam asked, alarmed at his attitude, though his voice was as calm as it ever was.

"Rad storm coming," he said, wrinkling his nose. "And by the smell of it, a bad acid rain."

Sam looked at the sky, just now noticing the sickly yellow-green tint of the clouds that had moved to cover the sun. "I've been out in a rad storm before," she said slowly. "It wasn't pleasant, but I survived. And acid rain doesn't usually bother humans." That had been before she'd taken to wearing power armor everywhere, when she'd first tried to set out to Diamond City to look up the mysterious lead Mama Murphy had claimed to See.

The storm had caught her as she left the road and she'd only barely made it back to the Truck Stop before she'd thrown up worse than she ever had with morning sickness. The radiation sickness had kept her down until Dogmeat had come, dragging Preston into her garage and barking like crazy. He'd been the one to give her a RadAway pack that she'd been too sick to reach, poking the IV needle into her arm with calm, practiced precision that was the hallmark of everything he did. At the memory, she shuddered, glad that she'd thought to sanitize everything she ever scavenged. Honestly, sometimes the thing she missed most about the old world was simple cleanliness.

Danse shook his head, picking up his pace. "I don't know how acid rain was back before the war, but every once in awhile, some freak wind carries a lot more poison in the rain from all the munitions factories and power stations that got destroyed in the Glowing Sea. Enough to even corrode our suits and sting human skin. We have to get to cover."

Sam picked up her pace too, but it was too late. The wind came from the west with a roar like a freight train from the old days, bitter cold and stinking worse than an old well, sulfuric and bitter. Her hair whipped around her face, pulling loose of the regulation bun at the base of her skull.

The rain hit just as they crested the hill above the Red Rocket Truck Stop, pouring down in sheets that stung like bites from a thousand insects. Sam ducked, trying to cover her face, completely forgetting about her helmet at her belt. The rain hissed as it hit her bare skin. A drop got in her eye and she shrieked at the pain, stumbling and falling to her armor-clad knees with a crash.

Danse hauled her up, using the handles on the back of the suit. He groaned and she looked over at him in concern as they ran. His face was streaked red with acid burns, faint smoke coming from his beard where the acid had hit hair.

"It's getting into my suit," he said, gritting his teeth. With growing horror, Sam realized it was happening to her too. The helmet was intended to be a tight seal over the whole suit, but without it, both of them were collecting rain in the scoop of space between the armor and where the helmet should go and it was seeping into the undercarriage of the armor. She could feel it sluicing down her back, burning as it went.

Finally, Truck Stop was right in front of them.

"Under the overhang," she yelled, spitting as rain got into her mouth. Luckily, he didn't question her orders and skirted the closed garage door, heading instead to the shelter of the overhang where the old fuel pumps still dangled. Both of them immediately climbed out of their suits, releasing a deluge of acidic water that quickly drained away from them. There was a drain in the garage, but it was clogged with two-hundred years worth of gunk, and Sam knew that if they'd opened them up there, they would just be stepping in it.

Danse's hands were covering his face, which she could see was covered in welts and his eyes were swollen almost shut. Now he was clawing at his uniform, yelling incoherently. The acid was corroding even the stiff material, almost dissolving it in places. Sam felt the same pain and itchiness too and clambered out of her Vault suit. In her bra and underwear, she ran to the water pump just by the door to the diner area, grabbing the nearby bucket she kept there. She pumped it, sobbing and shaking, and took the half-full bucket over to where Danse was shivering, his bare chest streaked with red blisters.

"Water!" she shouted in a hoarse voice, attempting to give him some warning, and upended the bucket over him.

He spluttered and shuddered, but rubbed his face with his hands, washing the acid away. Sam did the same for herself and pumped another bucket more for each of them.

"I c-can't see," Danse said, still shivering. "Carter?"

"I'm here," she said, touching his shoulder. "I'm going to get some soap. Stay here."

The downpour had stopped, thankfully, but green lighting still shot through the sky, followed by fitful rumbles of thunder, and she could feel the telltale signs of radiation poisoning begin to creep through her: nausea and a faint headache. Danse would be feeling the same too. They had to get under cover, load up on RadAway, and wait it out.

She walked to the back of the Truck Stop where Preston had helped her build a bathhouse complete with a huge stockpile of soap. About a month ago, she'd found an old ghoul trader who actually remembered making soap before the war and had managed to make some of his own, scented with hubflower. After buying out his stock, she'd offered him a five-hundred caps investment for his little business and a request to change his route to come her way.

Sam grabbed a bar of the hubflower soap and hurried back to Danse. He was no longer shivering, but stood frowning out at the distance.

"Are your eyes any better?"

"A little," he said, turning toward her. "Everything's fuzzy; out of focus…" Not out of focus enough, apparently. Sam saw his gaze flit over her and crimson that wasn't related to the acid burned on his cheeks. Then he looked away.

"My apologies for my disrespectful behavior," he said quickly. "I shouldn't have stared."

Sam loaded her bucket at the pump again, oddly touched by the apology. How many men would openly acknowledge such a thing and then apologize for it?

 _Nate would,_ she thought with a pang of familiar grief. _And then he'd crack jokes about it to break the tension_. She plunged her hands into the soapy water, making sure to take off her ring and wash beneath it before slipping it back on.

"Come here. We're going to get the rest of the acid off before we get inside." She pressed the soap into his hands and went back to her power armor as he splashed in the bucket to wash himself. She hesitated at the valve, but gritted her teeth and opened her armor back up. Her hands began to sting anew at touching the acid wet metal, but inside, she reached in and pulled out two stimpaks from the auto-dispenser.

"Stimpak," she said, hissing in pain, as she hurried back to Danse. "Hold out your arm."

He did so without hesitation, and she plunged the needle in, Her wet, acid slick hands slipped on the second and it fell to the ground, shattering against the concrete.

"Damnit!"

"Carter?"

"Never mind. Are you finished with the soap?"

He passed it, and she scrubbed all over, feeling a little better once the sulfuric smell was replaced by the clean smell of the soap. She rinsed off with yet another bucket of water, then started to pump once more, her limbs aching and her head spinning.

"What are you doing?" Danse asked, blinking rapidly, as if to clear his vision.

"Power suits have acid all over them," she wheezed. "Gotta clean them off too…"

Danse shook his head, putting his hand over her arm to still the pumping. "They can wait, Carter. We need to get inside." As if to punctuate his point, another fork of green lightning split the sky. On the ground where she'd shed it, the Pip-Boy's Geiger counter clicked in warning.

"Yeah," she said, standing up woozily, "you're right. Gotta get some RadAway too…"

Carefully, she led Danse into the diner and left him to lean against the counter, while she found something for them to wear over their soaked underwear. She dug through her chest of spare clothes in the little room in the back of the diner. Most of them were just bits and pieces she'd salvaged so that Mama Murphy could make quilts for the kids in Sanctuary. But there were at least a few wearable things.

"Here," she said, pressing a soft flannel shirt and jeans into his arms. "I think these might be big enough for you."

She pulled on something shapeless and vaguely smock-like that fell to her knees.

"A couple of buttons missing, I think, but it fits more or less," Danse said, coming around to where she was standing. And then his face was getting fuzzy and the floor tilted under her feet.

"Carter?"

She frowned. Why did his voice sound so far away—

"Sam!"

The world flashed green and went dark.

#

 _"_ _Hey babe."_

 _Sam opened her eyes, wincing as the baby shifted inside. She was so big now that the baby's movements were sometimes uncomfortable, unlike the first time she'd felt him or her kick—a small fluttering of movement—now it was more like someone pummeling her from the inside with tiny fists._

 _Nate stood over her chair with a glass of ice water, dripping with condensation in the summer heat. "Thanks," she said, managing a smile._

 _She took a sip. The baby moved again and she pressed a hand against her side. Nate's eyes followed her motion and he knelt beside the chair, eyes asking permission before his hands settled on the globe of her distended belly._

 _Sam forgot the stifling heat of the house for a brief moment as wonder and excitement crossed her husband's face. Eight months pregnant and he still never got tired of feeling the small life within her move._

 _"_ _He gives me hope," Nate said in a soft voice._

 _She raised her head. "He?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow._

 _"_ _Or she," he answered with a quick grin. "I feel like the world can be made new again when I think about our baby. Like the war is just a distant, sad memory."_

Sam woke up, her hand still curled around an invisible glass of water, and noticed that she was in bed, covered with a blanket in the small back room of the Red Rocket Truck Stop. A tube attached to an IV stand was sticking out of her arm and her eyes followed it up to a RadAway pouch which was just about empty. Her fingers probed a small red notch on the inside of her other elbow. A stimpak?

She pulled the needle from her arm, wondering if every Wasterlander knew how safely put a needle into someone else's vein. Even before the war, she couldn't comprehend knowing that as just an everyday skill, like brushing your teeth. When Preston had taught her about stimpaks, she'd been shocked. And now it was something she used all the time. Had a week gone by in this new world where she hadn't been forced to give herself a stimpak at least once?

She stood slowly from the bed, waiting for the nausea to hit, but it had fled with the magic of the RadAway, along with the headache. A can of purified water also sat next to her bed, and she popped it, sipping gingerly. Grogginess cleared as the water eased into her system and she left the room, leaving the half empty can on the counter. Her spare sleeping bag was on the floor outside her room, rolled up into a neat spiral next to the cabinet. Danse?

The smell of something burning wafted though the air and she lurched forward, following the smell outside the garage. The storm had passed and the sun was out, leaving no trace of the acid rain, except for a few puddles that smoldered with yellow steam and the wilted plant life. But this she barely noticed as she came around and saw Danse with the borrowed sleeves of the shirt rolled up, glaring at something on the grill as if seriously contemplating shooting it.

Sam's gaze went to his exposed arms. His skin looked healthy and undamaged from the acid rain, maybe a little more pink than it otherwise would have been. Had the stimpak healed her skin too? She watched for a moment, feeling strangely breathless as he knelt beneath the grill, fiddling with the barrel of Mr. Handy oil she'd attached to the grill as a fuel source. The muscles of his arms flexed and bunched as he twisted the handle and, just for an instant, she imagined those arms around her waist.

Flushing with shame and anger at herself, Sam squeezed her wedding ring tight around her finger.

She must have made some small sound, for he looked up at her. "You must be feeling better," he said in greeting, standing up. His eyes looked clear and there was a hint of a smile at the corners.

"Much," she said. "Thanks for the RadAway. And the stimpak."

"Not a problem. I'm happy to care for any soldier in my squad."

"How are you?" she asked. "Your eyes?"

"Almost back to normal," he said, wiping his hands on a cloth laying on the grill's handle. "A little fuzzy in the corners, but it's been getting better ever since I woke up."

"Good."

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Dosing up on RadAway always makes me want to eat. Thought I would try to make provisions…" He frowned at the burnt mess on the grill. "But I don't think I know how to use your grill very well."

Sam forced a laugh. "Sorry about that. Yeah, the Mr. Handy fuel has a lot more kick than you'd expect. I've learned to use about half of what I think I really need."

Danse scraped the crumbling mess off the grill onto a plate and tossed it into the bushes next to the building.

"That's a clever contraption," he said, gesturing at the grill. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone do that before."

Sam shrugged, padding into the garage. "I've always had a knack for machines, even as a kid I was always tinkering. Thought I would go into engineering, but Dad persuaded me to stick with the law. And he was right. I loved it too, in a different way." She walked to her weapons workbench, picking up the .44 snubnosed pistol that she'd been working on before Abernathy's had sent over a message asking for mechanical assistance with the generator that powered their main defense turrets.

She fiddled with the modified grip she'd been carving, idly picking up the screwdriver and quickly attaching the grip to the gun. Working with her hands had always helped her think… even when she'd been a lawyer, she'd often relied on physical activity like cleaning her sidearm to clear her head during difficult cases. The grip went on the gun and she held it cradled in her hand, aiming at the back wall of the garage to get a feel for it. A little more filing on the back, perhaps…

"Danse…"

His eyes raised from the gun in her hands, and she saw that he was slightly flushed, though she didn't know why. Perhaps an after affect of the acid rain. He cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"I'm returning to Diamond City tomorrow," she said. "Nick—" His eyebrows contracted at the mention of the synth. "Nick," she repeated in a firmer voice, "has found a lead on Kellogg—the man who murdered my husband and stole my son. So… I won't be able to go on the research mission that Proctor Quinlan wanted us to do." She crossed her arms. "I should have told you earlier… but I was trying to figure out how…"

His expression was unreadable. Sam pursed her lips and set down her gun, realizing with a start that she didn't even have any pants on. In her radiation haze the night before, she'd pulled on a long gray shirt that looked like feral ghouls had been drooling on it, and she hadn't even thought about it when she'd woken up.

"I realize that this puts you at odds with Maxson's orders, and I understand that you'll want to return to the Prydwen," she said, deciding to ignore her pantsless state. "If you want, I can give you the fusion core to my power armor and you can have a vertibird pick it up here."

Danse was silent for a moment. She could almost see him rehearse the words before he said them. "Elder Maxson," he said in a neutral tone, "much as I respect his vision, is a man too often limited by the big picture. He's been on the Prydwen too long. Hasn't been boots on the ground in… months? Years?" He shook his head. "Finding your son is important to you, so it's important to me too." He looked down, fiddling with one of the button holes on the borrowed shirt. "I can cover for you with Maxson and Captain Kells. You won't have to worry about them getting on your back."

Sam felt a flare of warmth start in her chest, expanding and loosening the tension she'd been feeling for days. Gripping her elbows, she nodded. Turning to go back inside and find something decent to wear, she paused, then turned to go through her box of spare parts by the power armor frame.

"Ah! I did have one." She pulled out a spare helmet lens with a triumphant grin. As he walked over to retrieve it, she bit her lip. "Danse," she said, he looked up from his examination of the lens. "I appreciate this. You've been a friend to me, not just a commanding officer and I… appreciate it." She finished lamely, cursing inwardly. What kind of lawyer was she to use the same word twice so close together. But Danse didn't seem to notice.

He offered her a small, sad smile. "Friend," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "I should tell you a story sometime…"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Well, let me get dressed and you can tell me while we fix your helmet.

His dark brown eyes searched hers a moment, and she tilted her chin up, meeting them squarely.

"All right," he said, as if seeing something in her gaze that reassured him. "Let's do it."

* * *

Note: So the acid rain part is directly inspired by a scene in the YA novel _Fragments_ by Dan Wells. In that book, the hero and her companions with are traveling through a wasteland very much like the Fallout world (just no nuclear fallout) and get caught in an acid rain that stings them so badly that they have to strip off their clothes and wash frantically with water. It was such a memorable scene and I was playing Fallout 4 at the same time that I was reading it, I couldn't help but often put these two worlds together. The acid rain and the frantically taking off clothes is the only thing I lifted from _Fragments_ (and I used my own words too). That being said, you should really go pick up the _Partials_ trilogy if you like Fallout 4, because it has many of the same themes.


	3. Nick

Author's note: In the game where you talk to Nick for the first time, I had Sam take the rude option and felt really guilty afterward. Then I wrote this to fix it.

* * *

Sam found Nick at a desk in one of the latest houses they'd cleaned up for their little community at Sanctuary. She'd attempted to turn the empty home into a sort of library with all the remarkably well preserved comics she'd scrounged, lots of old editions of the Boston Bugle, and as many old books as she could find. It was an experiment, as most things in the settlement were, but she hoped that maybe someday this community could have a school like the one in Diamond City, maybe even in this house— _Mr. and Mrs. Patel's home,_ her 200 year old memory whispered, recalling, for an instant, cinnamon eyes and welcoming smiles at the neighborhood potluck.

She shook the memory free like a cobweb, and sat down next to the synth detective, who was flipping through a brittle copy of the Boston Bugle, his skeletal fleshless hand surprisingly delicate on the antique pages. His other hand held the stub of a cigarette, which he tapped out on an ashtray as she walked in.

He looked up and nodded in greeting, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Hey kid."

"Hey," she said, and, losing her nerve for an instant, wandered over to the small bookshelf which she'd painstakingly filled with the few books she'd been able to find that weren't burnt or otherwise unreadable by moisture damage. Books had always been her retreat, her safe place, and her fingers reached for one instinctively to shield against the discomfort she was feeling. She paused, curling her fingers back into her palm and took a deep breath, turning for face the detective who was watching her curiously.

"I owe you an apology, Nick," she said after moment of silence filled by nothing more than the rustle of newsprint.

Nick tilted his head. "For what?"

Sam shifted, wishing now for the protection and comfort of power armor. She felt so small and vulnerable outside of it... "The things I said... about synths and you and how I... yelled." She winced at the memory, Piper and Ellie's shocked faces coming back to her. "It was wrong and I'm sorry."

"You were upset about your son," he said, sitting back, the newspaper dropping to the table. "It's understandable."

She shook her head. "It's more than that. I... I believed—all I could think..." She bit her lip. "It was as if you were the face of the Institute and I just... lost it."

Nick inhaled on his cigarette again, watching her. The smoke escaped through the cracks on the sides of his face. Finally, he stubbed out the cigarette, exhaling the last bit of smoke through his nose.

"I get used to the comments, the distrust. Hell, I can't even walk past Myrna's place without her scowl following me down the street," He tipped the brim of his fedora back a bit with a finger, looking her in the eye. "But rarest of all are the people who come to me and admit they were wrong. Especially ones who have such close ties to the Brotherhood. What happened to change your mind?"

"You did," she said simply. "You've been beating your head against this investigation so hard, Shaun might be your son instead of mine. When I tell my story, people are sympathetic, but it usually ends there. You expressed sympathy, but then you did more: you acted. You saw a closed door and looked for a window." She sat beside him and took his hand, the skeletal one. He looked startled and tried to gently pull away, perhaps wanting to spare her the discomfort of touching a part of him that was so obviously robotic, but she firmed her grip, surprised to notice that metal fingers, which she expected to be cold, were actually warm. "I once thought that nothing the Institute did could be good, but you're one of the best people I've met, Nick."

He reached over with his other hand, the one with synthetic flesh, and patted their joined hands. "Thanks, kid." He smiled crookedly at her. "Might want stop being so cuddly, though. I have a feeling Paladin _Dense_ might object."

Sam laughed, shoving him playfully with her shoulder. "Danse will need time, but I'm working on him."

"Might need some dynamite to loosen that brick."

"Nick…"

"Sorry, sorry. He's an ass, but he cares about you, so that's good enough for me." Nick patted her hand again and then released it, standing up from the couch. This close to him, Sam could hear the whine of servos from his mechanical joints. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check in with Piper. She swears she got a lead on one of my old cold cases for me. I want to make sure she's on the up and up and not just trying to get me to buy her a drink again."

"Wait up," Sam said with a grin. "I'll go with you." Together, they walked out of the house and into the sunshine.


	4. Endings and Beginnings

Spoilers for Blind Betrayal

* * *

Sam had the Vertibird drop her off an empty field north of the Abernathy farm. The Brotherhood knew about Sanctuary, but she didn't want to invite them any closer than necessary. Her power armor raised up a small cloud of dust as she landed, and she strode away, ducking to avoid the blades. The lancer piloting the craft waved goodbye, but she pretended not to see, hooking the green duffle bag's strap over a hook at her back next to her shotgun. Her helmet she removed, inhaling the woodsy, earthy smells of tilled dirt and brewing hops wafting from the farm and scrubbed a hand through her hair. She could see the lookout from the roof of the homestead checking her out through a scope, so she waved a greeting, but turned her feet toward Sanctuary. She wasn't in the mood for visiting right now.

If she'd hoped the walk would make her less angry, she was mistaken. Her fury seemed to rise with each step until she was stomping her metal-clad feet down with enough force to startle birds fifty yards away. But with every step she imagined Elder Maxon's face, his cold detachment, and the absolutely lost expression on Danse's face when she'd found him in that bunker and bile burned at the back of her throat. She reached the river around Sanctuary an hour later, her anger less explosive, but still hot, simmering. Nick, who must have been alerted by the Vertibird flying overhead, was waiting for her by a tree as she trudged through the ankle-deep water and up the bank.

"Well, you're alive," Nick said, his glowing eyes darting up and down her armored figure. "But by your expression I take it Maxson wasn't as lenient as you'd hoped he'd be?"

Sam shook her head, gritting her teeth. "I've been promoted, Nick. Paladin Samantha Carter, at your service," she said, spitting the words. "He gave me Danse's rank, his armor... even his quarters. Danse hadn't even been exiled for three hours before Maxson cut him utterly out of the Brotherhood, as if he never existed."

Nick's hairless eyebrows shot up.

She looked away. "You were right, you know. A year ago, when we first walked into the Cambridge police station. Do you remember? You called Maxson a mad man. You were right. I... I closed my eyes to it, because I was so desperate to find Shaun... I'm a military brat, Nick," she said this last pleadingly, though she was really speaking to herself. "I wake up 200 years later to complete chaos. The Brotherhood felt familiar, like family. It was like a cast holding together the broken pieces of myself. I needed it then... I... still need their help, but the cost is getting higher and higher."

Nick didn't say anything for a moment, which she appreciated. She didn't need platitudes right now. There was no fixing her own mistakes.

"Sounds like you could use a drink," the synth said at last. "Come on. I'll buy."

Sam shook her head. "Thanks, but I want to check on Danse. How was the trip back from the bunker?" She hadn't trusted Maxson to keep the Brotherhood away from Danse. He'd been paranoid enough to follow her to the bunker. What was to keep him from having a team waiting in ambush when she was gone? She'd asked Nick to escort him to her place at the old Red Rocket station with a discreet escort of Minutemen. The Brotherhood rarely went that far north, and she knew the others would keep an eye on him while she was away.

"Quiet," Nick said, turning to walk with her as far as the bridge that led out of the neighborhood. As they passed the whirring turrets and guard atop the watch tower, he lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter making his too-pale synthetic skin almost flesh-colored for a moment. "I don't think he was ready to be chummy with the only other synth he knows. Then again I'm some sort of Gen 2 model, and he's clearly a Gen 3. We're as different as a charcoal drawing is from an oil painting. Also, I've always known that I was a synth, but Danse found out, what, two days ago? I'll be here to answer any questions he has, but I'm not sure how helpful I'll be."

Sam paused at the apex of the bridge. They were far enough away from the watch tower that their words shouldn't be overheard.

"This is the first time I've encountered a Gen 3 model that wasn't a Courser," she said. "What do you know about them?"

Nick exhaled a cloud of smoke from his mouth and the cracks at the sides of his face. He looked at the setting sun, expression thoughtful.

"Hath not a synth eyes? Hath not a synth hands, organs,

dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with

the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject

to the same diseases, healed by the same means,

warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as

a human is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison

us, do we not die?"

"Shakespeare," Sam said after a pause. "Though slightly modified from the original. You do like your poetry, don't you, Nick?"

Nick grinned. "Always had a soft spot for the Bard. Nice job. I'll stump you yet, kid. Just you wait." He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette, smile fading into a look of thoughtful concern. "Poetic truth aside, I don't know much more than you," he admitted. "The most experience I've had has been with the few infiltrators that have shown up in Diamond City and Goodneighbor. The ones that replace real people and you don't know it until they flip their wigs and start killin' folks. But those are Institute plants, programmed for imitation and destruction. Danse appears to be an original model and has likely been in the care of the Railroad and Dr. Amari-or another organization like them if his memories of Rivet City are real. He has implanted memories of a childhood that didn't exist, of growing up. And that is one of the key differences for Gen 3s. They can grow hair, produce bodily fluids-blood, piss, take your pick. Cut open a Gen 2 and you get this." He pointed to the rips on the side of his face revealing the metal skeleton beneath. "Cut open a Gen 3 and you'll find muscle and bone. They also," he said, shifting, "have certain other, ah, accessories that Gen 2s don't. No one's ever going to mistake a chrome-dome like me for a human, even if I had all of my skin, but Gen 3s look the part. I heard a rumor of a story once, about a human man who married a synth woman, only she didn't know she was a synth. Only found out years later, when they were trying to figure out why they couldn't have kids. Sterility aside, Gen 3s appear human in every way." He darted a glance at her. "I would think that your time in the Institute had informed you of that much, though."

She shook her head. "They're different there. More... I don't know. Robotic? It's hard to tell if they're programmed that way or if they're too scared to be... real. At least once, I overheard a Courser asking a maintenance synth a few questions. I thought she sounded flustered, but when I looked up at her, she appeared perfectly calm, no expression, same as the Courser. But none of the synths there are anything like you, Nick. Or Danse, for that matter." Her mouth twisted. "The place makes my skin crawl." She glanced over the bridge to where she could see the red rocket sign above a rocky outcropping. "I should go. Let me know when you head back to Diamond City to check in on your caseload. I might tag along. I could use a break from… my life."

Nick nodded, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his heel. "Well good luck, kid." He paused, then reached up and patted her armored shoulder. "Remember, he's still Danse."

Her expression softened into a smile. "I know. Why do you think I saved his life, Nick?" She turned and stomped away across the bridge.

The Red Rocket Truck stop came into few a few minutes later. Dogmeat rushed out of the open garage, barking happily, running circles around her armored legs. She laughed, despite her tiredness and roiling emotions. "Good to see you too, buddy." She leaned down, armor creaking, and patted his side.

"Good evening, Miss Sam!" Codsworth sang out, zooming over from where he was tending the mutfruit trees in the little orchard she'd started.

"Hello, Codsworth. Everything alright here?"

"Indeed, mum! I believe the fruit will be ripe for harvesting in a few days. I have also cleaned the tiled floors—and oh mum, can I say how nice it is to have someone to clean for again?-and the bathhouse, there are two Brahmin steaks sizzling on the grill, ice cold Nuka Cola cooling in the 'fridge, and I also got an obnoxious stain out of that beautiful dress you brought back last time and—"

"Thank you, Codsworth," Sam interrupted. "Danse. Is he here?" She had a sudden worry that instead of staying put that he would run off again.

The Mr. Handy's arms seemed to wilt slightly. "Oh. Yes, Miss Sam. He's working in the garage. Shall I fetch him?"

"No, Codsworth, thank you."

"Very good, mum. I... I shall be on patrol this evening, then, shall I?"

Sam hesitated. The robot sounded so forlorn that she felt a stab of guilt. She needed to spend more time at home. Maybe she could take him on another expedition to find more Mr. Handy fuel together, but despite his ability to switch into combat mode, she could tell that he was happiest when fulfilling his primary directive as domestic robot. But there was also his attachment to her former life, his belief, nearly as strong as hers used to be, that Shaun would come home and they would be a family again. Her stomach clenched. Shaun. She would have to find a moment to update the robot on just what the laughing little baby from his memory banks had become. But that was for later.

"Codsworth," she said, reaching into the little side compartment on the inside of her armor next to her ribs. It released with a hiss, revealing a pair of wedding rings. She'd taken hers off three months ago and it had been in the little compartment with Nate's ever since. They'd been around her neck on a chain at one point, but now... She rubbed an armored finger over the bands, feeling an echo of sadness that could readily blossom into something worse if she let it. She held out her hand to the Mr. Handy unit. "I have to ask you something very important."

The 'bot's eyestalks focused in on her hand. "Are those...?"

She nodded. "These are our wedding rings. Mine and Nate's. I want you to keep them safe. I don't trust them with anyone else."

Codsworth unfolded one of his delicate tool arms, the one gentle enough to change a baby's diaper with, and picked up the two rings, tucking them into an inner storage area that sealed seamlessly into his bulb-like body. "I shall guard these with my life, Miss Sam. Thank you." He bobbed in place for a moment, his eyestalks going in and out of focus in a way she recognized as his way of showing hesitation.

"Is there something else, Codsworth?" she prompted gently.

"Is Mister Danse to be my new master, then?"

Heat rose into her cheeks. The Mr. Handy unit was far more perceptive than he should be. "I don't know," she said honestly. "But whatever happens, I will never forget Nate. But... he... he wouldn't have wanted me to mourn him forever." She felt her throat going tight. "We buried him the day I got out. Remember Codsworth?"

"Yes, mum. By the river under the oak tree. That day was... burned into my memory banks."

"It's time to let him go," she said, swallowing hard. Dogmeat pressed his nose into her hands, offering what comfort he could.

They stood in silence for a moment, Sam trying not to cry, wishing she was out of her armor so she could bury her face in Dogmeat's fur. Then Codsworth seemed to bob with a slightly more upbeat motion.

"Well, then. This home won't patrol itself," he said in a jaunty tone. "Come, Dogmeat. Want to go for a walk? We shall do the rounds and check in on Mr. Garvey in Sanctuary Hills. He always has a treat for you."

The dog barked excitedly and took off after the robot. Sam watched them go, realizing that the light was growing dimmer and her stomach was growling. Now that the barking dog and humming Mr. Handy were gone, she could hear the clang of machinery with a backdrop of mournful bluegrass radio music. Danse. Nerves she hadn't felt since the day she'd seen Nate across the mess hall at the army base when she was seventeen fluttered, and she tried to mentally squash them out. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

 _"Kill me," he said, his voice empty of inflection. He sat down on the chair, bowing his head into his hands. A lone lightbulb above their heads flickered. "It's the only way and you know it."_

 _Sam drew her favorite .44, cracked open the cylinder, and ejected all six bullets. Danse looked up, startled at the sound of them dropping to the floor. Holding his gaze, she dissembled the gun, throwing the pieces across the littered remains of the bunker._

 _"Carter—"_

 _"No," she said, dropping to her knees in front of him, so they were eye level. "You listen to me. Maxson is dead wrong. You are more human to me now than you've ever been. These emotions you're feeling—despair, anger, hurt—that proves it. They are as real as my own feelings. And more than that, I will not lose you. Not like this. Never like this."_

 _She grabbed one of his hands, guiding it to where her pulse thundered in her neck. His eyes locked on hers, and something flickered there, the deadness retreating like a veil. Slowly, she guided his hand back to his own neck, to his own pulse. "What beats there so strongly is not the heart of a machine," she said._

 _"Sam," he said, but his voice broke, and he leaned against her, burying his face in her neck. She wasn't sure if he cried—he was so still—but his breath warmed her throat, and she reached up awkwardly around the breadth of his shoulders, trying to hold as much of him as she could. It was important, she knew, that he feel her acceptance, her refusal to treat him as anything other. And there was something else, too, something she had been refusing to admit to herself for a couple of months. But it was harder to ignore when his life was on the line, when the threat of going without seeing him everyday made her want to curl up in a ball and weep. When had that happened?_

She walked into the garage as the memory faded. Danse was bent behind her old T-45 power armor suit: the one that had saved her life when a deathclaw appeared in the ruins of Concord after rescuing Preston Garvey and his group of survivors from Quincy. She was glad to see him working on it, certain that keeping his mind and hands occupied would be more beneficial than sitting and brooding in her home with only a Mr. Handy and a dog for company.

He poked his head out from behind the armor, a streak of grease across his forehead and a wrench in his hand. "Hey."

"Hey," she said.

His eyebrows knitted and she fought the ridiculous urge to grin at the familiar expression. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, reaching behind to unhook her shotgun and placed it in its rack on the wall. She put the duffle bag on the ground and walked over to the other empty power armor rack, initiating the manual release, and climbing out of the suit with a huff of relief as the pistons released.

Danse looked at her as the armor folded back up, his eyes falling to the dog tags at her neck. "You... kept them? Maxson didn't want them?"

At the name, Sam stilled. "I didn't ask," she said after a careful pause. "I probably would have shot him if he'd asked for them."

"Carter!" Danse sounded shocked. She didn't reply, going to the duffel and crouching to unzip it. It was easy to assume that after what Maxson had done Danse would be free of him, free of the Brotherhood's more… objectionable beliefs. But it wasn't that easy. People were complicated knots of habit and passion and belief and disbelief. Danse had taken to the Brotherhood like a fish to water. He would have to unlearn a lot of things. He would have to be aware that he needed to unlearn a lot of things. He was still wearing his orange BOS uniform, for crying out loud, and he had been exiled a little over two days ago.

She inhaled a breath. Small steps. One thing at a time.

Danse came up behind her, peering over her shoulder. "Did you... go scavving?"

"No," she said, pulling open the flap of the bag. She tugged out the top item, a bundle wrapped in a plain white undershirt, and handed it to him. He unwound the shirt, revealing a small glass-framed photograph of Danse with a shorter, more military haircut standing beside a taller, dark-skinned man with a wide grin.

"Is that Cutler?" she asked, watching his expression.

"Yeah," he said, fingers curling around the frame. "How did you...?" He trailed off as he saw the rest of his belongings in the bag. "Maxson gave you my quarters, didn't he."

"'To the victor go the spoils' were his exact words," Sam said, unable to hide the bitter anger in her voice.

Danse nodded slowly. "Congratulations... Paladin. You've earned it. I only wish I could have been there for the ceremony."

"Danse," she said, standing, but then she paused. He was smiling. He was genuinely happy for her.

"You should hate him," she said at last. Then, though she knew she should reign herself in, the words spilled out. "I do. He represents everything that's horrible about the Brotherhood: he's a cruel, selfish bigot that—"

Danse took a step back, shaking his head. "He wants what's best for the Commonwealth. He's right to distrust me. I... may not be like the others—the ones that kill indiscriminately— but synths are dangerous. They... rip families apart. They kill and destroy and... they're unnatural." His voice cracked. "I'm... unnatural."

She took a step closer until they were only inches apart and put a hand on his chest over his heart. "Do I need to remind you of what you are?" And what you mean to me? The words hovered on her tongue, but she held them in. This wasn't about her.

He locked gazes with her and shook his head, though he still looked troubled. "What do you want, Sam? I can't... I won't speak against the Brotherhood. I still believe in their mission."

Sam turned back to the duffel. Small steps. She reached in with both hands and withdrew the bottle of whisky she'd found in his footlocker. "I want to get staggeringly drunk, Danse. It's been a hell of a few days, and I think we've earned some shore leave."

#

Danse blearily contemplated the whiskey bottle. "Don't worry," he said, catching her grin. "I'm only here to get slightly intoxicated."

She nodded in mock seriousness, but her lips quivered with suppressed giggles as Danse—concentrating with unusual ferocity—leaned forward to tip the last of the bottle into her glass. They sat outdoors on a patio behind the garage that she'd built. Their plates held the remains of the Brahmin steaks Codworth had left for them, a laser turret at the end of the overhang was happily zapping bloodbugs out of the night sky, and the evening was pleasantly cool with the onset of autumn. Sam couldn't remember feeling so content since she'd woken up. There were still problems, still the Institute and Not-Shaun, but the alcohol had made it easier to tuck those things away for the next day when she was sober. Now, the buzz of whiskey was humming through her veins, making the stars brighter, the shadows longer, and Danse's face somehow clearer. She found herself noticing scars she hadn't seen before. She also had to sit on her hands to keep from running her fingers along them, biting her tongue to stop from asking about them.

"No more of that, please," Sam said, pushing the glass away and opting for a drink of water instead, swishing it around her mouth to get the taste of the whisky out.

Danse grinned and her heart gave a flop. "Hit a wall already, soldier?" He raised a glass to himself. "Mission accomplished!"

"Not nearly, you smug bastard," she said, smiling to take away the bite of the words. She was feeling pleasantly tipsy from the 200-year-old whisky, but whiskey—even good whiskey—had never been her favorite drink. Whiskey reminded her of her father, of his office on the military base, and the careless laughter of law students drinking on the quad while she stayed at the library studying. She wanted something fun. "Here," she said, pulling out the cooler she'd tucked under the table. "You youngsters hardly ever get good stuff. You're all drinking booze that should have been drunk 200 years ago. But this stuff is the real deal. Paid that one guy at the Rexford to brew some for me three years ago. 'S prolly still too young, but what the hell."

She pulled the cork on the bottle and poured some into their glasses. Danse lifted his glass, sniffing and his eyebrows shot up into his hair. "What is this?"

"Gin," she crooned, kissing the side of the bottle fondly. "I used to have it with soda water and a twist of lime with sugar rimming the glass."

"Lime?"

"Fruit. Tart. Green. Not native to Massachusetts. Too cold to grow here."

Danse peered at his glass, swirling it around. "What's soda water?"

"The stuff that makes—well, that used to make Nuka-Cola fizzy." She scowled. Two-hundred year old Nuka-Cola was a flat, viscous liquid, not at all the refreshing fizzy drink she remembered enjoying on a hot summer day.

He wrinkled his nose and she had to physically fight the urge to reach out and smooth out the wrinkle with her fingers. "Gin and Nuka-Cola?"

"It's not as bad as it sounds," she protested. "But no, there's this other stuff, the fizzy stuff, none of the cola stuff. It's clear, like water, but bubbly. Maybe that brewing buddy thing can make some..." She trailed off, looking at her glass with trepidation. "I don't know how good it'll be. Real gin is made with juniper. There's this strand of mutfruit that Abernathy was growing that's sort of similar to juniper..." She frowned. "I hope it's good."

Danse slammed his cup down on the table, smacking his lips. "Ad victoriam!"

Sam jumped, startled into laughing. "Did you just shotgun that? The hell, Danse! This bottle cost me two-hundred caps! At least pretend to taste it!"

"Then pour me another glass, Sam," he said, and his voice was liquid velvet for a moment, his eyes, always an amber brown, seemed darker, and she suddenly forgot what her hands were doing, feeling a flush of heat rise up her neck.

"Saaaammy," he called, resting his arms on the table. "Wake up, soldier."

"You almost never call me Sam," she noted, using both hands to carefully pour into his glass. "Called me 'Carter' ever since I met you in Cambridge."

"'S not proper," he muttered. "Superior officers are to maintain a professional distance from their inferiors." He rattled off the words as if they were memorized from a book. Knowing Danse, he probably had.

"So calling me 'Carter' prevented you from breaking the fraternization regs?" The words slipped out before she could pull them back. He leaned back a bit, as if trying to focus on her better, and she held her breath. The confusion on his face was almost comical.

"Wanted to—" he said, but stopped himself, frowning and blushing crimson up to his eyebrows.

"Call me 'Sam' all the time now," she said in a rush, suddenly worried that he was going to call it a night.

Danse snickered. "All right, Sam All the Time Now."

Sam snorted into her gin and they both burst out laughing.

Once the gigglefit had passed, she lifted her own glass to her lips, shivering as the alcohol passed her lips. It wasn't her drink, with the lime and sugar, but it was damn close. Maybe...? "Oh damn," she said, and stood, swaying for a moment as all the alcohol she'd already drunk rushed into her head at once.

"What?" Danse looked startled. "Where you goin'?"

"Idea. Fridge. Come on. Wanna try something." She yanked on his hand, and he wobbled to his feet, stumbling against her. Scooping up the bottle and her glass with her hand, she scurried around the corner to the garage, where the radio was still playing a jaunty tune. She passed into the diner area and pulled out a Nuka-Cola Quantum from the fridge. She popped the cap and carefully poured the luminescent stuff into her gin, stirring it with her finger.

"What are you doing?" Danse said, watching the Quantum glow in the glass with furrowed brow.

"Taste test. Quantum tastes like furniture polish usually, but..." She tipped the gin and Quantum into her mouth and nearly groaned. It was good. It didn't even need lime and sugar.

"Try this," she said, shoving the glass under his nose. His eyes crossed trying to follow it, but he grabbed the glass and took a sip.

"Outstanding," he said, eyes wide.

Somehow, they both ended up sitting on the floor of the diner area, gin and quantum severely depleted as they passed the glass back and forth.

"Thank you," Danse said, arm resting on one knee. "I needed this." His voice had lost that earnest sound of concentration. He sounded sad and tired.

 _Uh oh,_ Sam thought. _Maudlin drunk is bad drunk._ She carefully slid the bottle aside.

"I don't know who or what I am anymore, but… when I'm with you, it doesn't seem to matter too much." His cheeks darkened and he fiddled with a loose thread on his uniform. "You might be the closest friend I've ever had."

She slipped her hand into his. "That's a good start."

"A good… start?"

She couldn't take it any longer. The buzz was fading and the world felt like it was tilting all around her, but Danse was solid and still. She kept her eyes on him, lifting her free hand to cup his cheek, feeling the crinkle of his beard against her palm.

"Kiss me," she said.

He shook his head. "You… don't know what you're saying. You're drunk, Carter."

She almost sobbed. "Sam," she insisted. "Kiss me and call me 'Sam.' I do know what I'm saying, damn it. I've had feelings for you for a long time, and I have to know if you feel the same way. You almost said it earlier."

His eyes searched hers, and the depth of despair in them brought a lump to her throat. "You can't be in love with me," he said in a hoarse voice. "You're a Paladin now. How could you possibly think of… of a thing like me in that way."

She did cry then, tears welling up and spilling out down her cheeks as she grabbed the front of his uniform. "How many times do I have to tell you how human you are?" He didn't reply, merely looked away, as if her insistence was making him uncomfortable.

"Damn it, Danse," she muttered. "Guess I'll have to show you." With that, she yanked him closer and brought her lips to his.

It was a sloppy, drunk kiss, made even more awkward by the fact that Danse didn't respond at first, so she felt as if she were just mashing their faces together like she had with her dolls as a child. She could feel the tension in him, the desire held in check somehow with ironclad control that had even held through all the alcohol. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he began to kiss her back, his lips gliding over hers, his beard rough against her face.

Sam was distantly aware that this _wasn't_ the best kiss she'd ever had: they were too drunk for one thing, but her senses were full of him: the taste of gin-and-quantum on his tongue, and his smell of machine oil, sweat, and hubflower soap were intoxicating her on a level somewhere beyond the alcohol. He didn't seem to know where to put his hands—he was patting around blindly on her arm—so she guided them to her waist. He made a strangled sound deep in his throat, pulling her against him tighter, one of her legs slung over his.

She wasn't aware when they came up for air. One minute all she could think was Danse then the next he was murmuring her name as she cradled his head against her chest, running her hands through his thick hair.

"Never doubt who you are," she said, kissing the top of his head, her lips felt numb, though whether that was from the alcohol or the making out, she wasn't sure. Her lucidity was rapidly fading now, but there was one thing she wanted to say before she lost it.

"Rivet City," she said, twirling her fingers in the hair above his ears. It was getting just a shade longer than regulation.

"What?" His voice sounded thick.

"When… when this thing when Shaun is done. We can go to Rivet City. Figure out which parts of your memory are real. I know you're worried about that. You've been helpin' me out. 'S my turn to help you."

He didn't reply.

"Danse?"

A snore rumbled through her shoulder where his head was laying. Sam sighed and leaned against him. She'd close her eyes for a few minutes. Just until the room stopped spinning.

#

Codsworth returned with Dogmeat to the quiet truckstop. Codsworth thought, at first, that Miss Sam had left, but then he found her and Mr. Danse leaning against each other, fast asleep.

Codsworth bobbed over them a few seconds, then floated into the bedroom, retrieved a blanket, and returned, tucking the blanket over the sleeping duo with a gentle hum of contentment.


End file.
